


Particle Theory

by theskywasblue



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kougaiji returns home</p>
            </blockquote>





	Particle Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, well...what can I say. I needed this.

It takes longer to convince Yaone that he is alright than it does Lirin. Lirin is still very much child- _like_ even if she is no longer truly a child, and she displays in her brother a blanket trust which he knows that he is unworthy of, particularly now. Yaone is more suspicious, more concerned – it takes promises and reassurances just short of orders to convince her to let him out of her sight.

Dokugakuji trails after him down the hallway to his bedroom, a silent shadow. His clothes are wet from carrying Lirin to bed and there’s a faint chemical aroma around him that makes Kougaiji’s nose itch.

His hands itch as well, his throat, the skin on every inch of himself – but he has no idea what to say or do yet to remedy any of that.

When he steps into his chambers, Dokugakuji remains behind, hovering at the threshold, and Kougaiji feels something like a stab of grief in the pit of his stomach.

“You may...come in, Dokugaku.”

Dokugakuji takes two steps, shuts the door behind himself and being suddenly alone in a room together is like the world falling away beneath Kougaiji’s feet. They stand no more than six inches apart for what seems like an age, and then Dokugakuji comes forward, his breath hitching softly in his throat as he moves, puts his arms around Kougaiji’s shoulders, presses his face into the crook of Kougaiji’s neck and just breathes; like he’s trying to drown himself in the scent of Kougaiji’s skin.

Although his recollection of exact events during the time that he spent under the thumb of Nii’s mutant science is hazy, Kougaiji realizes that this is the first time in weeks he has allowed Dokugakuji to be physically close to him – the first time they have touched. It’s alarming, this intimate and abrupt look at the capacity for cruelty which is normally dormant inside himself. Kougaiji can do nothing but stand very still and feel Dokugakuji’s hands pressing into his shoulder blades.

Dokugakuji has strong hands, broad and heavily calloused – a working man’s hands, Kougaiji thinks, though not unkindly. His father had often disparaged the worn hands of the castle servants, with their claws blunted to accommodate their work – but Kougaiji knows that these are hands that have built the world, hands that have shaped and protected things more important than he can even imagine.

Dokugakuji takes a deep breath and it shakes right through him before he says, “You were so far away Kou, so far away from me.”

Before Kougaiji can speak, can reassure him, Dokugakuji pulls him through the room up next to the bed and begins to undress him. There’s nothing romantic about it – it’s as precise and complete as a medical exam – Dokugakuji’s hands touch every part of him, as if confirming he is whole and unharmed. He presses his palm over the barcode now tattooed on Kougaiji’s bicep as if force alone could obliterate it from Kougaiji’s skin. Then, he lays his forehead on Kougaiji’s shoulder, with his hands all but encircling Kougaiji’s hips, and Kougaiji can feel the panic drain out of his body, the tension he’s been carrying for far, far too long.

“Are you finished?” Kougaiji asks.

The response is a laugh against the skin of his neck. “Maybe, yeah.”

“Maybe?”

Dokugakuji cradles his face in his hands, kisses him, like acceptance, like love and gratitude, and says, “We’re going to bed – just you and me. Maybe for a week.” He smiles as he lets his coat fall to the floor. There is still a tight edge to it, but he is putting on the bravest face that he can manage. Dokugakuji is a man of brave faces, of hands that are steady on the grip of a sword, but unsure as they guide Kougaiji back to a bed covered in satin sheets. He stretches himself over Kougaiji and kisses whatever skin he can find, writing a long letter of forgiveness with the brush of his lips and a warm ink of saliva. Kougaiji is shocked to realize that Dokugakuji has lost weight; his muscles are like wire under his pale skin and the vertebrae in his back feel sharper under Kougaiji’s palms, more clearly defined. The whole of Dokugakuji’s body sings very softly of need; when he shifts forward, rubbing a growing erection against the seam of Kougaiji’s hip, he ducks his head shyly, as if it were the first time.

It’s terrible to think he almost threw this away – the shared heat of their bodies, the slick press of skin, the brush of whispered endearments as Dokugakuji moves easily into the space inside his body – and Kougaiji knows that he could have destroyed everything Dokugakuji is with nothing but a word, a gesture. He kisses the apology deep into Dokugakuji’s mouth, writes it on his skin with sweat-damp fingers until shared pleasure pushes away the last of the guilt lingering in the shadowed corners of his mind, until their bodies move back into that perfect alignment Kougaiji promises himself he will never take for granted again.

As they lie together afterward, breathing in the heady scent of sex and relief that permeates the room, Dokugakuji kisses the side of Kougaiji’s neck, the joint of his shoulder, and smiles. “Welcome home, Kou,” he whispers, nuzzling gently under his ear. “Welcome home.”

-End-


End file.
